The Strange Man
by Generation Extant
Summary: Dr. Russell Garamond of London, formerly of Chicago, has a patient get up and walk out of the OR... during his own operation. The patient turns out to be no other but the mysterious time traveler known as the Doctor. (This story was originally published from June 10-15, 2006 at Generation Extant dot com.)


(This story was originally published from June 10-15, 2006.)

After finding out his internet connection was down, as well as most of his area, he had spent the better part of that day on the phone with tech support buffoons who seemed just as bewildered as he was. After exhausting all options with his computer, it was on to the divorce proceedings, in which several of his near and dear personal items scampered into the clutches of a glacial harpy. After that, it was an watered down cup of coffee and an overcooked dinner at the diner below his efficiency apartment. Russel used to have a nice house, and live near nice restaraunts, but what the ex-wife wants…she got. His peers at the hospital had taken to jeer him, calling him the only poor Doctor they'd ever seen.  
Then, at nine forty six PM, Russel's life got a whole lot different.  
A page. Surgery. His presence was required. No doubt, thought Russell, of all people I could be the only one to do this particular surgery. "What a way to spend my day off," Russell grumbled as he threw a few notes on the table and stormed out into a windy night and piloted his beat up car across town. The good car had gone to the harpy.  
The doors to the emergency room flew open as Russell enterted, irritably yanking on his white coat. On the drive over he had kept repeating "day off, day off, day off" in his head and now he was in a terrifically foul mood. As he stormed into the operating room he glanced about: rookie doctors, scrubs, and not even good ones. He had worked with them all, and these were far from the cream of the crop. His mood grew sourer as he hopped from face to vapid face, barking out commands in the finest medical jargon. The scrubs leapt to attention, which elicited a "Thank God" from the corners of Russell's mind. Oh well, at least they followed directions…  
But wait a minute…  
what the hell…  
where was the patient?  
Russell suddenly panicked. His mind raced in an infinite number of directions. Was this a joke? Did they lose the patient on the way? Did the stress finally get to him and he wasn't even SEEING a patient? His eyes began to roll and he clutched both hands to his head, trying to keep the world from spinning. When his brain righted itself, he noticed that no one else in the OR had noticed his spectacle. In fact, he noticed that all of the scrubs were too busy noticing…him.  
Roughly six feet, a bit portly, wearing sandy colored trousers and a brown tweed jacket, complete with suede elbow patches. He whistled and hummed a merry tune as he washed up in the OR sink, going so far as to bathe his face as well as his arms and body. The man turned around and began buttoning up his burgundy shirt and re-adjuting his brown tie, pausing only to obsessively twirl his pointed moustache or to stroke his Van-Dyke style beard. With all of this taken care of and his attire in his preferred state, the man set out to leave the operating room cooly, although it had been a scant ten minutes ago that he had been brought in. He was halfway to the door when Russell finally found his voice, shattering the man's merry hum and asking the question everyone in the room (save one) was wondering:  
"Who ARE you?"  
The man pulled a small mirror from out of his inside jacket pocket, adjusted his moustache once more, turned and broke into a mischevious grin.  
"I'm the Doctor."

Doctor Russell Garamond fairly lept across the room (one he had finished leaping out of his skin) making a mad grasp for the swiftly departing man who had only seconds ago been lying prone on an operating table. Despite being a fairly rotund figure, this "other Doctor" moved surprisingly quick, bustling out of the OR with a great sense of purpose. Russell soon found himself chasing this strange man down the corridors of the hospital, finding it very difficult to keep up with the abrupt twists and turns this man was making. Russell was tall and lanky, with long legs, but still his portly quandary eluded him, short legs walking at a brisk gambol toward the hospital exit. As the strange man entered the reception area, several things happened in such rapid succession, and such pinpoint chance, that Russell did not have a chance to shout to an orderly or a coworker.  
First, another patient was brought in for examination and the receptionist, seeing Russell apparently had time for a quick jog about the hospital, assigned him to it. As the patient's wheelchair was being thrust into his stomach Russell saw the odd figure intercept an orderly and remove some of his personal artifacts that the orderly just happened to be carrying by: a tan overcoat with noticable hunter green stitching, an brown tweed windsor cap to match his jacket and a small satchel of personal belongings. With a flurry of hands and a prim and proper (if not a bit condescending) "Thank you, m'boy," the man was out the door, his short legs propelling him like a brisk privateer.  
Russell was furious. Shoving the wheelchaired patient uncerimoniously to one of his scrubs (who had recently come out of shock and had hurried after Russell) Doctor Garamond blustered his way to the front desk and prepared to have it out with the wry and dry night receptionist.  
"Why in the blue hell did you let that man would out of here?!" he shouted, "didn't you just see him brought in for surgery not ten minutes ago?!"  
"Well he didn't seem in much need of surgery to me, Mister Garamond," the receptionist snapped back, "in fact he seemed fit enough to outrun your scrawny ass out of this building! Now please, get back to work and help those who actually need it!"  
"Me leg does hurt me somefin awful," The wheelchair man said, trying to be helpful.  
Russell bristled and waved a callous hand at the scrub. "Fine! Fine. Take him in, let's see what's wrong," He turned and glared at the receptionist in sadistic glee, "I'll let you deal with all the paperwork."  
And with that he was off, back to work, but he still could not shake the imagine of that man who had gone from unconscious with two bullets in his abdomen to motoring out of the hospital doors. He came in so fast and left just as quick they probably didn't get a single bit of paperwork on him, and the ambulance reports were no doubt whisked away during his calculated mad dash out of the ward. That also troubled him: the way the man seemed to know what was happening, and where, and how, and when, and who. It was surreal, as if he'd been there before… there was no way he was getting any sleep tonight, far too many thoughts to keep him awake. Suddenly everything in his room would start to trigger something. His bedside clock, his perfect timing. His tan curtains, the man's tan overcoat. The shape outside his window, an old police box from the 1960s…wait, what? A police callbox? And a shadowy moving toward his window?  
But he lives on the second floor!

Russell Garamond was captive in an iron grip of fear. He lay in his bed, deadlocked, every once in a while glancing toward the adjoining rooftop where the callbox had appeared. A callbox? He hadn't seen one in years, and he'd certainly never seen one on a rooftop. And now a shape emerged from the box, and he knew, he just knew, it was the strange man.  
He saw the outline of the Windsor cap in the 3AM moonlight, the stocky frame, the quick, purposeful footsteps that seemed to cover so much ground so sharply. In fact, they were covering a lot of ground. Ground that wasn't there. This strange man was walking between the rooftops, over the alley…in thin air.  
At this point Russell became even more terrified, believing this now to be some terrible vengeance wrought unto him by the devil or, even worse, his ex-wife. Russell was actually too busy fretting about what the man might do to him that he had failed to notice the man standing directly outside his window, his second floor window, tapping irritably at the glass. His voice, though muffled, came through quite clipped and clear.  
"Excuse me. Excuse me! I can see you there, and the saucers you're sporting for eyes tell me you're awake, so could you please let a poor chap in? The rain lowered the temp a bit and it's not pleasant out here."  
Russell was not sure what to do. Part of him wanted to leap to the window, part for the door, and part for his gun. Wait, he hasn't got a gun. He should have bought a gun. He could have used the gun on his ex–  
"EXCUSE ME SIR!" The voice became more agitated, but still articulate, "You have something that belongs to me, sir, and I would like to retrieve it!"  
The vest. Of course, the man's vest! Russell had snatched the vest after the man had forgotten it in the OR. He wasn't sure why, but now he was fairly certain the man meant him no harm.  
"Oh for goodness' sake!" The strange man seethed, and proceeded to pull what looked like a penlight from his interior jacket pocket. A wave of the blue light and a strange whirring noise followed, and suddenly Russell's window sprang unlocked. Grumpy and cold, the man flung the window open in a fuss and clamored into the room, muttering the entire time.  
"My word, this century has no sense of hospitality. A man shows up, cold and destitute on your windowsill and you leave him to the elements! No 'hi, how's your Mum? Care for a spot of tea?' Not even a bloody biscuit… makes one yearn for the time of Victoria, such manners then. Of course they were depraved and nasty under the surface but oh, such manners!"  
By now Russell had risen and crawled into a robe. He stood, bewildered, as the man continued with surprising energy.  
"I've seen Picts with better manners, honestly! What, just because someone pops in from a callbox and uses anti-gravity Wellies to pop on by makes him some sort of alien or something!" The strange man grinned and indulged in a high pitched giggle, "Well, I AM an alien, but I hardly look it! Honestly, how rude of some people, I'd hate to see how they'd treat a Fanx or a Jagron, those are absolute horrors to look at! But the cuisine, oh! Jagron pasties and Fanx wines, to die for!"  
Russell finally broke the silence with a voice that broke just as easily, "Um…excuse me?"  
The man whirled around, just as hystrionic as before, "ah, the ape speaks! How…refreshing! I find myself an interesting conversational partner, but I often know what I'm going to say and it spoils all the fun. I much prefer live conversation, that is if you are a lively one, and I'm starting to doubt that… but you seemed very lively at the hospital!"  
"The hospital!" Russell finally blurted to stop the incessant chunnering, "The hospital! You were at the hospital! You were shot! Twice! Bullets! Abdomen, uh…"  
"I see it is either too early in the day for decent conversation or too early in your evolution, dear boy," the man grinned maniacally, "but I thank you for the sink to wash up in. Those bullets made an awful stain on my shirt. Tragic, really, the finiest Alcoron fibers, given to me as a present by their Minister of–"  
"WHO ARE YOU?!" Shouted Russell, suddenly thankful his dank little apartment was the only one in the building.  
"I told you before, I'm the Doctor, and I'm here for my vest," he removed the vest from Russell's desk chair, doffed his jacket and overcoat, and reunited his sandy trousers with its vestmate.  
"Ahhh, lovely. Really, completes the ensemble, don't you think? Rather slimming, I must say," He examined himself in Russell's tiny mirror, bobbing this way and that to get all of himself in. "I'm awfully portly this time, though, I sort of miss the old gangly days–"  
"How did you survive?" Russell spat out, building his confidence.  
"As I said earlier, I'm an alien. I look a bit like you, but I'm not like you. My body has already worked around the bullets and is right now in the process of metabolising them into my body. Gunshots are simple, but only if my body is allowed to take its course, not like the last time I was shot, the damnable human anesthetic nearly put me out for good, resulted in such a bothersome regen–"  
Russell began to feel quite rude, but he had to get his words in. "So you're an alien who survived two gunshot wounds and used your magic teleporting callbox to appear on the rooftop nearest mine and retrieve your vest?" The Doctor offered him a curt nod and continued obsessively twirling his moustache in the mirror.  
"Anything else I shoud know?"  
The Doctor turned to adresss him. "Well, first off you have a dreadful manner for receiving guests."  
"I wasn't sure if you were going to mean me harm or not…"  
"Well, I was getting there if you were going to continue letting me freeze out there!" The Doctor chided, "but I suppose it's only normal, what with all of the hardship you've endured lately…"  
Now it was Russell's turn to be indignant. "What do you mean…hardship?"  
The Doctor adjusted his moustache one more, and launched into a rapid tirade. "Doctor Russell Garamond, one of Great Britain's up-and-coming surgeons, recently divorced, pathological workaholic, lover of rugby, hater of football, likes dogs, hates cats, indifferent to parakeets, chicken before the egg, the tree does make a sound, and…" he cocked his head to one side quizzically, "briefs."  
Russell hurriedly re-fastened his robe while bristling. "How do you know all that?"  
The Doctor shuffled up very close, so close Russell could smell a spicy cologne, and whispered very confidentially, tapping the side of his nose, "I'm the Doctor, and that's all you need know. Now, care for a spot of tea?"  
"Tea? Where? I haven't got a kettle!"  
"But I have my pockets!" The Doctor giggled, "pockets pockets pockets, how I love my pockets! That's the reason I came back for the vest you know. That and it was a gift from a gorgeous Vivarian princess for saving her, ahem, chastity a while back. I added the pockets, of course, can't ever have enough of the things! Here-"  
The Doctor rifled through his pockets and began setting out several things on Russell's endtable, naming each as he went.  
"Nail file, spare comb, extra buttons, licorice scotties, eyeglasses, tie-tack, spare cufflinks, sonic screwdriver (the strange penlight Russell had seen earlier) needles, thread, jelly babies (I LOVE these…) collapsible cups, packet of biscuits… here we are! A spot of tea!" The Doctor produced a small vial of tea, poured it into two of the cups, opened a pack of chocolate biscuits, leaned back in Russell's chair, and sipped appreciatively.  
Not being one to deny such hospitality, Russell sat at the foot of his bed, took a biscuit, sipped some tea, and began having the earliest afternoon tea in the history of the world.

"Well, you sure aren't much of a decorator…" The Doctor mused around a biscuit, noting the threadbare appearance and bare essentials that pock-marked Russell's dingy flat.  
"The ex-wife took it all," Russell said despondantly, "the damn harpy's got almost everything I own. Nothing I could do, she said I worked too much, I said I was a doctor and there's nothing I could do about it. The courts said either stop being a doctor or stop being a husband, and I had to take the latter…" his head almost drooped into his tea.  
The Doctor glanced at Russell, both of his hearts aching for the man. Though he often seemed a chunnering, portly grouch, he had a great deal of love and respect for all good things, particularly good humans. So, in a flurry of hands, the early morning tea was tucked away, and the Doctor was ready to get down to business.  
"Well," he started, regaining Russell's attention, "You may be A doctor, but I'm THE Doctor, and I can help you. That callbox of mine is more than just a flying contraption: it's an intradimensional transporter, a TARDIS: Time And Relative Dimension In Space. It can take you anywhere, and anywhen, in the universe. Doctor Garamond, I suggest you cancel your appointments for a while, because I'm taking you on a holiday."  
Russell's head was now fully out of his lap, and was now fully spinning. "Wh-what?" he stumbled, "I'm going…where?"  
"With me, dear boy," The Doctor chuckled, "that is, unless you'd prefer this dank little hovel, your crumpled Vauxhall and your loving 'harpy.' You're a good man, Russell, and you ask questions. With someone who talks as much as I do, it's always nice to have someone who asks questions," he finished with a wink and a chortle. "So now, shall we be off?"  
"You know what?" Russell smiled, "I think we shall. Sounds like a hell of a time!"  
"Oh, my dear boy…" The Doctor giggled and produced a pipe from an inner pocket, sucking on it thoughtfully, "it's all about time!"  
Grinning like a madman, Russell started to bustle around his apartment. "Just let me get a few clothes…"  
"Yes, that would be preferred…" the Doctor pulled a wry face, "the girls may not like it."  
"Girls?!" Russell squeaked a little. He was answered with another wink, "you mean…you've got others in that tiny little box?"  
"Oh, my boy, I've got MUCH more than just girls inside my box, just you wait and see. But for now…" he gestured proddingly with his pipe. "your clothes…"  
"Right!" Russell gushed embarassedly. Within a few minutes he was slightly less than resplendent in a pea green jumper, a battered but comfortable leather jacket, blue jeans, trainers, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His short cut, pin straight hair had been fussed and mussed into what he believed was a passable hairdo, and he carried nearly all of his belongings in a dilapidated suitcase at his side.  
"So let's see…there's the rent, and the hospital, and the payments to the…ugh…harpy…"  
"Russell, my boy," the Doctor said, throwing a comradely arm around his shoulders, "take my advice. Simply don't pay them. Take a little cash and go. By the next time we're in this time or place, they'll probably think you're dead, and dead men don't pay their rent, now do they?" He raised his thick eyebrows mischeviously.  
"You're right, they don't!" Russell laughed, and headed for the door. The Doctor, while still in posession of his antigravity Wellingtons, opted for the easier route out of the window. Russell found himself standing on the streetcorner outside, near the restaraunt, about to see the first of many fantastic things.  
First, it was a strange noise. He could only describe it as "vworp vworp," sounding almost like an old car trying to turn over. Then, suddenly, right in front of him, that very same magical police box began to slowly but surely materialise in front of him, until it was there, solid and real, just as plain as the corner on which had stood no police box only a few moments earlier.  
The Doctor then emerged from the box, holding the door open for two more passengers. The first, a porcelain skinned, redheaded Irish woman who looked to be dressed as some sort of Great Famine re-enactor; and the second, a jet-black haired Mediterranean-looking mistress in a strangely-shiny power suit. Either this Doctor fellow really had been bouncing about in time, or he had some odd tastes in women.  
"Doctor Russell Garamond, meet Colleen Criadha and Javis Nine, my traveling companions."  
Russell went to shake hands, but was instead greeted with a proper courtsey and an enthusiastic hand slap. These were certainly no ordinary girls. As the Doctor ushered them all inside, Russell caught the strange man's ear for a bit.  
"Companions? You like a bit of variety spice in your life?" Russell laughed.  
"I can assure you, my dear boy, that it is nothing of the sort," The Doctor shot back with a look of consternation, "I rescued Colleen from the famine and Javis from alien invasion. They both have no family and I care for them. They are like my daughters, I suppose. After all I am nearing one thousand of your years in age, I must be too old for them!" he winked and carried on past Russell's astounded expression, "So, feel free to try whatever romantic trades you feel you must, but remember you'll have to deal with a fairly discriminating father. Also, I may have to warn you, though the TARDIS is large, there is nowhere to escape the fury spoken of through the Bard."  
"A woman scorned, I know it," Russell shook his head. He stepped inside the box continuing on the Doctor's previous soliloquoy. "So what do you mean this TARDIS is…large…"  
Inside that police box was a mammoth control room, at the center a giant glowing console covered in buttons, levers and other mechanical means. As the Doctor manipulated the means, the central column began to move up and down with that familiar vworping noise. Russell, finally adjusting to the shock of dimensional inproportionality, asked where exactly they were going.  
"Well, my boy, said the Doctor, discarding his overcoat to Colleen and tapping his pipe on the console, "seeing as how you seem to be woefully short on manners, I figured I'd take you to the Victorian Era, London specifically, 1888. I chose that year because I love having all those eights together, ha ha." he laughed at his own little joke.  
"So how does this thing work?" Russell asked, gazing in awe at the oscillating column.  
"Have you ever thrown a stone in a stream, Russell?" The Doctor asked, eyes full of wonder and voice full of ecstasty. "Have you noticed how some droplets may spill out onto the bank? But somehow, they find their way back from the bank into the stream. Perhaps in a different place, or at a different time, but they always come back in. With this button," The Doctor tapped his pipe accordingly, "I'm going to toss that stone and send us onto the bank. Then, and only then, can we rejoin the stream. In a different place, in a different part, but rejoined once more." He leaned in close and whispered with barely contained excitement, "Here we go!"


End file.
